


In Training

by Sharpiefan



Category: Show the Colours (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a bit darker than my usual offerings. Written for the StC Kink Meme prompt: <i> childhood injury - any character</i></p>
    </blockquote>





	In Training

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit darker than my usual offerings. Written for the StC Kink Meme prompt: _childhood injury - any character_

  
**Title:** In Training  
**Fandom/Canon:**[Show the Colours](http://showthecolours.jcink.net/index.php?act=idx)  
**Author:** [](http://sharpiefan.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://sharpiefan.dreamwidth.org/)**sharpiefan**  
**Word count:** 623  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Pairing/Characters:** Thompson  
**Disclaimer:** My own characters and setting. Anything incorrect historically is therefore my own error. :D  
**Author's Note:** This is a bit darker than my usual offerings. Written for the StC Kink Meme prompt: _childhood injury - any character_

  
It wasn't how George Thompson had imagined it. He had been past the Marine barracks almost every day of his life, and had even been inside several times, running errands for one or other of the Marines who lived there, anything to earn a crust or two, or even a farthing. And he'd stopped to watch the men drilling when he could, too.

But he'd never seen this side of it, of course. Sergeant Sweetman was very careful not to do anything where it could be seen by a superior, or anyone who wasn't in his squad, even. He ruled his squad with an iron fist, both in their barrack room, and on the drill square, and anywhere else where they were not under the gaze of someone of superior rank.

It was his cane that he used, of course. Along with the shoulder knot and sash that he wore, his cane was a badge of office. It was also his favourite method of punishment. He had others, of course: a musket held out at arm's length in front of you, or doing double drill with a pack full of stones. But his favourite method was to cut at you with his cane.

The white canvas drill jackets were cut round - without tails. And the issued white trousers were thin, lightweight canvas. Sometimes the cane would lash you across the shoulders - especially in the early days, when you were still learning the foot drill and hadn't started wearing crossbelts yet.

But soon after they had passed the basic foot drill tests and moved on to drilling with muskets and wearing crossbelts, things had deteriorated.

"Present... _arms_!"

The squad performed the movements cleanly, crisply. And yet Sergeant Sweetman was still not satisfied, and prowled the squad, moving behind them where they could not see him, his favourite place to torment them from.

"Keep that bloody musket still, Thompson, or I'll see you at the triangle," he growled, making Thompson grow cold. And if his musket hadn't been moving before, it was now: he was shaking with the effort needed to keep it there, and with the fear of what he knew was going to come next.

A flare of pain across the back of his thighs, and another. Please God it wasn't going to be one of those days where he wanted to see blood..!

It seemed it was.

"I ain't leavin' you alone till that musket's as still as a rock," the hated voice threatened, careless that the thrashing wasn't going to help matters.

Thompson bit his lip to try to take his mind off the pain of his legs and forced the musket to stillness.

"Well done, boy. Fourteen strokes that time... next time I'm gonna make you count 'em."

It didn't always happen out on the parade square, either. The squad lived in dread of Sergeant Sweetman coming into their room and inspecting them, or their bed-spaces, something he did far too often. And because they were safe there from any possible prying eyes, if he found anything wrong, anything out of place, he would make you drop your trousers and bend over, which made your shirt ride up, giving him bare flesh as a target for his cane.

He never striped your buttocks, though, only your thighs. Though that was painful enough, of course, when sitting afterwards, but it was at least possible to sit, just about, if you perched on the very edge of the bench.

By the time Thompson's training had come to an end, he was about fifteen... and the backs of his thighs were covered in thin white scars from the Sergeant's cane, scars matched on the thighs of every other Marine in his squad.


End file.
